Yesterday Kenny woke up with a little gunk in his left eye. By noon it was fervently pink, and by the time he woke up from his nap, both eyes were completely glued shut with yellow and green ick. He started screaming and I ran upstairs, my stomach in my throat. It took a wet cloth to unstick his poor little lids so that he could see, then several minutes of hugging for him to calm down. He was a sad little puppy for the rest of the day, feverish and cranky, no appetite and just plain woeful. We took him to the doctor to diagnose the obvious, and today he is much better overall on Vigamox and Motrin.
Unfortunately, Pink Eye had a nasty run-in with Pregnancy Hormones today at two o’clock, and I am ashamed to say that the Hormones won out over mommy’s normally good nature.
I had an appointment with my chiropractor at 12:30 today – bad news all around, as her office is 45 minutes away, and 12:30 falls smack into lunch and naptime. I go to a very specialized chiro, called an “Atlas Orthogonist” – it’s an incredible branch of medicine and my pregnancy has been much more comfortable because of it. There is no cracking or snapping, only gentle pressure points and muscle stimulation. At this point in my pregnancy, I should be going once a week, but I’ve missed the last three weeks – mostly because I hate dragging Kenny for a car ride that long. Anyway, I was so far out of alignment that my dear orthogonist was clucking her tongue and shaking her head. In fact, she said that there was nothing about me that was in sync. With that many adjustments in one sitting (I usually only have a few), I left feeling like I’d been through the ringer, with a killer headache coming on.
In light of the bad timing of today’s appointment, I had packed a lunch for Kenny and I to eat in the car on the way. Despite the fact that he devoured it, by the time we got home (at 1:45), he started whining for lunch. And not only lunch, but lunch outside on his picnic table. It was all I could do not to collapse on the floor in pain, as the muscle soreness was setting in, but I said, “Ok” and fixed him a little plate and said we could take it outside, then we’d have to come back in for a nap. He then continued, in his whiniest voice, “I want to eat my lunch at my picnic table!!” another ten times, each time I was saying “Ok” as I scrambled to fix him a plate (that I knew he wouldn’t eat) and tried to suck down a Pepsi as I contemplated whether or not my searing headache deserved a Tylenol. Finally, I lost it: “I SAID OK! WE CAN EAT YOUR LUNCH OUTSIDE AT THE PICNIC TABLE!” This was projected at nothing short of a yell, getting louder with each syllable. Halfway through the sentence, I knew I needed to stop myself, but I was so mad I only got louder. I slammed the kitchen counter door shut on the last word and turned my back on Kenny.
He started crying immediately, of course. I’m not a screamer by nature. In fact, I can remember exactly only 3 other times I’ve lost control and yelled at him. Twice in the same day, about a week after my second miscarriage, and once in the car, lost on the beltway in a bad part of town when he wouldn’t stop asking me when we were going through another tunnel.
I went over to him and wrapped my arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Kenny. That was wrong of Mommy.” His little chest heaved, and he stammered, “Why did you yell at me?” Just last week during our trip to the Outer Banks, Kenny had seen one of our friends yell at her kid several times. He was shaken up by it, and asked me what was going on. We went in our room and talked about it; about how it made us feel, and why it is wrong for a mommy to yell at her kid. Anyway, I held him tight and said, “I was wrong to yell at you. I should never yell at you. Mommy is hurting right now from our trip to the doctor’s office. I’m really tired and I need a nap, and sometimes when you ask me the same question over and over, when I’ve already answered you, it makes mommy’s head start to spin. But I should not have yelled at you, and I am sorry. Will you forgive me?” He nodded and wiped his runny nose on my bare arm. Then we headed outside to his picnic table, where he ate exactly one grape, and declared that he was ready to go in for a nap.
It’s so hard to be calm and nuturing with a sick/cranky Two Year Old. Right now he’s refusing bedtime, sitting on the landing of the stairs, crying, “Mama! Mama! Mama!” over and over. It’s after 9. Between Casey and I, we’ve already spent over an hour in his room with him, trying to get him to sleep, and now it’s the maddening tough love time. Even without prenatal hormones coursing through my nearly 9-month pregnant body, it’s tough to take. Ah, give in to his plans or wait it out while I slowly go crazy one floor below.
Calgon, take me away.